


messy

by luminescent_forest



Series: drabbles [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Ink Has Issues, M/M, Mental Instability, One Shot, Requited Love, depressive episodes, dream is the mom friend, first fic on ao3 be gentle, good god he puts up with so much bullshit, kinda? mostly just hurt but, my apologies, this really isn't the best relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22885525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminescent_forest/pseuds/luminescent_forest
Summary: ink is a wreck. dream is selfless. i love them.
Relationships: Dream/Ink (Undertale), Dreamtale Sans/Ink Sans, Drink (Undertale), Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734169
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	messy

**Author's Note:**

> cheers to first work on ao3!! i haven't been writing for long at all but i'm having fun so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ please enjoy.
> 
> tw - substance abuse/alcoholism, referenced self-harm, depressive breakdown

Dream hadn't heard from Ink in almost two weeks. It wasn't unusual for the artist to forget to return calls, look at texts but never return them, or lose his phone entirely, but never for weeks at a time. Dream was sensible, level-headed, and self-assured; he didn't worry without need. Now, here he was in the middle of the Doodlesphere, standing in front of his friend's house, driven by concern alone.

He knocked clearly on the wooden door, loud and sharp enough to be heard throughout the house. Several seconds passed without response and he knocked again. Visions ravaged his mind's eye and he took a deep breath to dispel them. He knocked again only to be met with silence, then let himself in; Ink never bothered locking his doors.

The word 'mess' couldn't possibly be more of an understatement. The stench of pot was the first thing to hit him, followed by the awful scene that was Ink's living room. Various piles of dissimilar books spotted the floor and colonized the coffee table, all stacked precariously. There was a large canvas leaned against the wall displaying a half-finished abstract painting and another on the floor. Pens, pencils, and a million brushes of every size littered every surface. Plastic cups, both half-empty and horrifyingly full of colorful or dark water, balanced on newspapers. Cheap, plastic brushes stuck out of many of them. Cups and plates of paint reappeared throughout the space; back covers of arbitrary books often used in lieu of a palette. There was a glue gun still plugged into the wall. Clothes were scattered about in wrinkling heaps. Food wrappers and mostly-eaten meals splattered the mess. Above all, most notable was the staggering amount of empty cans and bottles of booze.

Dream sighed, heavy and heart-rending. Hadn't they cleaned this together a month ago? He didn't want to see the state of the rest of the house. "Ink?" he called out, stepping forward carefully. He tried to bat away awful thoughts of the lanky painter lying halfway dead on the kitchen tile, or clutching cut arms atop bloodied sheets, or passed out in the bathtub holding his poisons, or pouring out magic and marrow from long, deep slits. He breathed deeply. Thinking like that would do him no good.

Minding the mess, he worked his way up the stairs and to Ink’s room. The door was ajar. He pulled it open enough to step in, prepared to find the worst waiting for him. The room was in a state very similar to the living room, now featuring bedding strewn about and a supply of unopened liquor on the bedside table. There he was, curled into himself on the bed, clutching a pillow between his arms and legs. The sheets were undone in the far corner. Dream huffed a breath of relief as he hastened to the other’s side. 

On top of the skunkish odor of weed layered with smoke, he reeked of cheap beer. He looked like he hadn’t changed his clothes in days, much less showered, and the smell was testament to that. There were stains on his cheeks running from his sockets. He looked up at the god with faded eyelights. 

After the relief of not finding him dead - a fear which was much bigger than he cared to think about or give credit to, - anger washed over him. He wanted to scream some sense into him, slap him until he realized what an idiot he was, throw and break things and cry. Tears pricked his eyes. He dug his fingers into his palms and denied his anger. 

Ink had been clean for three months. Of everything - pot, booze, self-harm, and quick hookups. He promised he’d do everything he could to be the kind of man Dream deserved, yet here he was. He promised. 

“Daydream,” the cross faded bastard implored with half a sob, looking up at him. A weary smile sat on his face.

It took Dream several moments of controlled breathing before he felt he might open his mouth without screaming. Several moments in vain. “Look at you!”

Ink flinched at his abrasive tone, pulling the pillow closer to him. 

Dream didn’t know what to do with his hands other than throttle him. He kept them at his side, more or less. His breathing only got worse, and soon the first sobs took hold of his body. He did scream at him, telling him exactly how stupid he was, how much he’d worried, how much he’d trusted him. Ink could only cry, grasping the cushion so tightly that the seams began to tear. 

When Dream could say no more, there were only tears. He was holding himself now. “Sometimes I wish I never loved you.” It was quiet, his voice broken.

“Sunbeam, you don’t mean that,” Ink slurred, desperate for reassurance.

“I do mean it,” he sobbed. “Look at you.”

The room was filled with their muted sobs and wet sniffling. Dream took another deep breath, feeling a bit better. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he knew he would never leave the painter on the bed. However mindless, infuriating, or selfish he was, he couldn’t leave. He made up for these moments in gifts, in unconditional love, in understanding Dream hadn’t previously known. He would forgive him, not because he felt obligated, but because he truly wanted to. He wanted to see Ink get better.

The last time he pulled something like this, Dream left him on his own to figure things out. He wasn’t there to bring him water and medicine, to bandage up his wrists, to tell him things would turn out alright. Ink realized how much he loved the god, and Dream realized what a toll these binges were taking on his own health. They both distanced themselves, and during that awful time, saw that they really did need each other.

Dream looked at the blood smeared on the pillow, then to his best friend’s face. He drew closer and knelt, now eye level with him. 

“God, I’m fucking pathetic,” Ink breathed.

“Sometimes.”

“You know you’re better off without me, Dreamy.” His voice was hazy. 

He really considered his response, even though he knew the other wouldn’t remember it. “Some days, yes. As a whole, no. I don’t know how long you’ll travel this multiverse or how much longer I’ll trod without you. I’ve lived without you before and I’ll do it again in less than a century. You’re here now though, and I want to enjoy that fact to its entirety. You pull some really stupid stunts, you act like a teenager, you’re entirely reckless with the life that means so much to me, you take idiotic risks, and act without thinking about other people. You’re a wreck if there ever was one. You’re broken up in messy shambles. Yeah, days like these, I’m better having never met you.”

Ink sniffled.

“But ninety percent of the time? Inky, you taught me how to enjoy life again. Lying with you makes me feel rested. I look at your stupid face and everything else melts away.” They were holding hands now, blood rubbing off onto yellow gloves. “I know you’re messy, but so am I. Love isn’t meant to be clean anyhow.” 

The monster on the bed smiled and cried softly. Dream kissed his hand gently, then examined his self-inflicted injuries. He’d seen much worse. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he instructed, “and then you can sleep off those toxins.”

Ink nodded. He knew Dream wouldn’t stay the night, but he also knew there’d be water and ibuprofen waiting on his nightstand when he woke up. Things really would be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> critique is so much more than welcome, i am practically begging. thank you for reading!!!


End file.
